


Lull

by sciencefictioness



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Retired Vigilantes, Scars, is this fluff? idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 11:12:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16722276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencefictioness/pseuds/sciencefictioness
Summary: It’s the thunder that wakes him, Jesse thinks.Loud enough that he feels it in his chest, on and on, a constant rumble.  Outside the sky is falling, rain pounding on the tin roof overhead as lightning flashes through the window, illuminating the room in stuttering snatches of brightness.  The power has gone out again— it always does during storms like this— and the autumn chill has him shifting in bed, seeking warmth.Seeking Jack, who is sprawled out gracelessly beside him, sleeping like the dead.  Snoring, mouth open, nuzzling closer as Jesse wraps him tighter in his arms.





	Lull

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in thirty minutes in the middle of the night on three hours of sleep in galaxy brain mode. Please accept this humble offering.

It’s the thunder that wakes him, Jesse thinks.  

 

Loud enough that he feels it in his chest, on and on, a constant rumble.  Outside the sky is falling, rain pounding on the tin roof overhead as lightning flashes through the window, illuminating the room in stuttering snatches of brightness.  The power has gone out again— it always does during storms like this— and the autumn chill has him shifting in bed, seeking warmth.

 

Seeking Jack, who is sprawled out gracelessly beside him, sleeping like the dead.  Snoring, mouth open, nuzzling closer as Jesse wraps him tighter in his arms. 

 

Once upon a time the slightest noise would wake him; the slightest movement, a light flicking off. Jesse couldn’t even turn over in the beginning, when sharing a bed was a new and foreign thing for them both.  Jack would startle to his feet, reaching blindly for his visor and scrambling for his gun, desperate to protect himself.

 

Desperate to protect Jesse.  Shoving himself in front of Jesse, even half asleep,  _ McCree where are you, get to cover... _

 

It took a long time to find their way, but watching Jack sleep through the torrential downpour that’s shaking the trees apart is a beautiful thing.  Beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with the strong jut of Jack’s jaw, or the high curve of his cheekbones. 

 

Jack is beautiful all on his own, but that he feels safe here with Jesse is staggering.  A lifetime of missions and firefights and duty, and Jesse thought he’d have to bury Jack one day, but he finally put it down.

 

Set it all aside, and let himself breathe.

 

Jesse runs his fingers through the mess of Jack’s hair— it’s getting long, or long for Jack’s tastes, anyway.  He’ll want Jesse to cut it soon. Jesse will stand barefooted on the worn linoleum of their kitchen with a pair of clippers, and buzz it down like he always does.  An inch or so on top, shorter at the back; Jack will complain it’s still too long, but he won’t push that hard. Then Jack will put on his glasses, and take scissors to Jesse’s— it’ll be uneven and ragged, an utter mess, but as long as Jack still pets through it as Jesse is falling asleep he doesn’t really mind.

 

The sheets are tangled up at their feet, and Jesse reaches down to tug them back up.  Tucks them around Jack, who relaxes into the warmth, making a pleased noise but not stirring any further.  Jesse slides his palm slowly across Jack’s shoulders, tracing over the scars there; a long gash under one shoulder blade, a ragged tear next to his collarbone, the pockmark of a bullet hole so close to his spine that it still makes Jesse’s breath hitch to think about it.  He can’t see them all in the dark, but he knows where they are, could find them with his eyes closed.

 

There’s the wide outline of a burn on one bicep, the skin rough and uneven.  A vicious set of teeth marks on his calf, a shrapnel wound spread out over his abdomen in half a dozen places where he’d been caught too close to a blast.  A slash that curves around the front of his throat where it had been slit, not quite deep enough to do the job. Jack looks at them in the mirror sometimes, staring like he can make them disappear, but Jesse likes them there— every one of them is a victory.

 

None of them managed to put Jack down, and now they’re dozing together in the quiet of their house, no one else around for miles.  Nothing but the thunder, and the rain. Their dog, a mutt of indeterminable origin; ten shades of shaggy brown fur, blind in one eye and sleeping soundly on the couch.  Jesse’s dog, Jack says, but he’s the one always sneaking her table scraps and letting her on the furniture when he thinks Jesse isn’t looking.

 

Tomorrow Jack will grill steaks over the firepit in the backyard, both of them drinking warm beer while Jesse smokes too many cigarettes and tries to get his bike running again.  Grease stained on the floor of their carport, Jack handing him the wrong tools every time he asks for one, pretending he doesn’t know any better. 

 

Jesse smiles in the dark, and presses his mouth to all of Jack’s scars that he can reach, pulling him closer with his left forearm as best he can.  It’s harder without his prosthesis, but Jesse never wears it at night, and he’ll have to make do. Jack mumbles something incoherent, and shoves his face deeper into Jesse’s chest with a sigh.  

 

It’s not perfect.  They both have nightmares they’ll never entirely shake.  Jack still gets twitchy in public, restless and uneasy in any kind of crowd.  Jesse sees ghosts sometimes, out of the corner of his right eye. People who are long gone, and Jesse blinks, and turns, and there is nothing but shadow and memory.  The left hand he left behind across the ocean hurts when it gets cold, and he can feel it flex, and make a fist. Jack’s eyes are going. Slowly, but there’s no way around it, nothing to be done.

 

It’s not perfect, but it’s better than anything Jesse ever thought he’d be allowed to have.  He didn’t die in some back alley across the world, didn’t end up rotting away in a prison cell.

 

Didn’t have to put Jack in the dirt, left in an unmarked grave with nothing but a pair of dog tags and a rifle to remember him by.  

 

Jesse buries his face in Jack’s hair and inhales, palm splayed on his back, one leg thrown over Jack’s thighs.  Lightning strikes, violent and sudden, painting them both in bright white before fading away. The storm will be gone in the morning.

 

They always pass sooner or later, and Jesse is still there with Jack, both of them in pieces.

 

Better together.  Not whole, but whole enough.  Sleep doesn’t come for a long while. 

 

Jesse doesn’t mind.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Tell me nice things


End file.
